http://sethgodin.typepad.com/seths_blog/2007/06/responsibility.html
just read this link from saurabh's blog. though it is meant more for marketers/sales/advertisers kinda thing, its got me thinking. am i, as an artist/musician/poet taking responsibility for what i do? would i put my name on it?
sobering thought.
one of my favourite EVER poems-put up because sanga is the most technophobic chap i know, and also because, well, i love it. am also sick and tired of telling people about it-now they can bloody read it for themselves. yay.
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Are you well?
I am well.
Are you not well?
I am not well.
Do you breathe?
Yes, I breathe.
Do you not breathe?
I do not breathe.
Do you love?
Yes, I love.
Do you not love?
I still love.
- Nunsanga
an old one again. was actually the 'prelude', of sorts, to 'cigarettes, tea ...'
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So much blood, so much anger, so much hate. So tired. And Rahul is screaming again. Wishing he could scream, rather. Wishing he could die. Wishing, hardest, he could write.
It's bleeding sunsets again. It is bleeding tomato ketchup and redemption and acres of cool green hills. Most of all, it's bleeding Rahul. He seeps through my defenses, pushing, coaxing, and singing to me in that crazed highland voice; singing of sugar and spice and all things nice. Rahul wants to write. I only want to sleep. Sleep till the end of the world and beyond. Sleep. Rest. Scream. I can hear the crows calling, calling me to join the empires in their collective belly. They, who have feasted on kings and sacred cows, would now feed on me. Strange honour this is, but surely honour still.
This city reeks of boredom. "Wait for the rain," they say, "it will wash away the dust."What thundering cyclone could wash away the gathered dust of a million years, settled like dew on a million souls? Grey voices. Grey voices in my head, and like the shadow of a whisper, Rahul's. Daring me to hope, coaxing me to madness, calling me home.
Delusions of grandeur are no escape. They weigh one down with responsibility; responsibility to a destiny that may or may not be imagined. They fuel a frenzied reading of the prophets, real or pretend. They lure me on with possibilities. Maybe things will change. Change, maybe, before I am broken.
Rahul is stirring. Shaking his dreadlocks, scattering dandruff and magic. He has slept for a long time. I have not heard his voice for an entire night.
I beheaded the dolls Marie gave me. Their expression didn't change as their heads reluctantly parted company with their rubber bodies. I wish they had. At least that would make me feel guilty for the desecration. For a change, make me feel.
The peak has been sealed off. They don't want people on the hilltops anymore. They only want their gods, their priests and their inflated racial egos. I won't be able to get married there after all.
But Rahul is free. He doesn't care for laws, of man, beast, or physics. Easy for him- it is my body that suffers for his actions. If I die, he will only go to another. He refuses to leave until then. But Rahul is my friend. I only wish he would stop screaming. I'm getting kinda hoarse.
